Obedience
by Thanfiction
Summary: A purely PWP Bondage/Domination ficlet written as a gift for a friend on Tumblr. Angels are created to obey.


The sigil drawn on his vessel's flesh bound him utterly, holding him effectively far more helpless than the mere ropes against his skin. He could act now only if the inscriber of the sigil so wished, and even his breath - unneeded - was halted between the intakes which answered the questions growled warm against his ear.

"What is your name?"

"Castiel."

"What are you?"

"I am a Seraph, an Angel of the Lord."

"Why were you created?"

"To praise God, to love and serve Him. To protect and love humanity."

"Have you done these things?"

"I have tried."

"Is trying good enough?"

"No."

"Then what will you do?"

"I will obey."

There was a sudden, harsh movement, but he didn't flinch, even as the shining, razor-sharp blade slashed through the heavy sisal at his wrists as if the ropes had been made of nothing at all. The sigil remained unbroken, though, and he kept his head bowed, his hands clasped against the naked warmth of the skin at the small of his back.

There was a long pause, then a low chuckle, satisfied that Castiel had made no attempt to move, that he was indeed, obedient. "You told me that angels get pleasure from obedience. That you like it. Is that true?"

He nodded, trying to suppress the vessel's growing arousal for which he had not yet been given permission. His eyes remained downcast, but his senses were still impeccable beyond human reckoning, and that simple vision so minimal. He could smell his captor's, his sweat, his blood, his heat and pheremones and the first trickling hints of more. He could hear the heartbeat, the slide of muscle against bone and sinew, the flexing of flesh. Feel the movement of the air currents, the throb of his soul's energy so thick and strong and keen and hungry.

What he wanted was to break not only the bonds of the sigil but perhaps even the vessel itself. To seek and coil and bond and…no. This was not about his needs. This was about how he could serve. Please. Praise. Oh yes. So much to praise.

His lips parted despite himself, his concentration having slipped enough for the slightest gasp, the flick of the tongue over the lips, a shudder that ran from the nape of his neck to flex his toes where they pressed against his bare buttocks as he knelt. "I do." The vessel's voice - always strained a little when he tried to use it - was so low and rough as to be barely audible to mortal ears. His own seeped around the edges, tatting the windowpane with a sudden rime of fractures.

His captor did not seem to notice or care. He leaned low, and a self-satisfied smirk crinkled the corner of Dean's green eyes as he licked his own lips, one hand unbuttoning his trousers as the other stroked almost lazily along his swollen groin through the cotton of his shorts beneath. "Im-var-mar butmon pambt daxil ozien sal vach tey."

Castiel had expected the order, but not the language. Another windowpane shivered beneath the undercurrent of his gasp. "Abiapri." There was something exotic, lush, forbidden about curling those sounds onto this meat, forming them against lips and tongue and teeth, moist and breathy. "Abiapri sal vach tey."

There were more instructions, though he had no idea where Dean would have learned the words for such deeds. But this was not his to ask. His was to obey, and he did. He obeyed Dean and the vessel obeyed him and such petty things as oxygen and reflex meant nothing. His Grace was free to obey as well - though only to obey - and he ran it along his tongue and through the thick networks of nerves, caressing Dean's entire body with simultaneous pleasure.

He obeyed. Suck and pump, lick and murmur, kiss and swallow. Until Dean was shuddering, half-sobbing, the fists in Castiel's hair barely holding him upright on knees that were trembling almost too much to support him. His last pronouncement had not been an order and not in Enochian, but the sweeter for it; Castiel's name shortened in the familiar manner to a single sharply cried syllable of more than approval as he came.

Dean's lips were still shuddering lightly, his pulse still hammering as he kissed Castiel deeply, tasting his own pleasure on the vessel's mouth even as one hand wiped down Castiel's chest, smearing and destroying the sigil. He reeked richly of endorphins, of satiation, but there was still the taut coil of lust to the set of his shoulders and the predatory poise with which he lowered himself to his knees as Castiel rose, now unbound.

It was nothing but a flick of his fingers to fetch the cuffs from the bedside and snap them into place. Dean's thick shoulders flexed, testing them even as the second pair took his ankles, and the green was barely a fine halo around eager darkness as Dean looked up entirely too boldly. Another motion of Castiel's hand remedied that, pressing him to full genuflection.

"What is your name?"

"Dean Winchester."

"What are you?"

"I am a human, a Hunter."

"Why were you created?"

"To fight evil. Kill monsters. Save people."

"Have you done these things?"

"I have tried."

"Is trying good enough?"

"No."

"Then what will you do?"

"I guess I'm gonna obey."


End file.
